by W. H. Rhodes
[Decoration]
XXV.
_A CAKE OF SOAP._
I stood at my washstand, one bright sunny morn, And gazed through the blinds at the upbringing corn, And mourn'd that my summers were passing away, Like the dew on the meadow that morning in May.
I seized, for an instant, the Iris-hued soap, That glowed in the dish, like an emblem of hope, And said to myself, as I melted its snows, "The longer I use it, the lesser it grows."
For life, in its morn, is full freighted and gay, And fair as the rainbow when clouds float away; Sweet-scented and useful, it sheds its perfume, Till wasted or blasted, it melts in the tomb.
Thus day after day, whilst we lather and scrub, Time wasteth and blasteth with many a rub, Till thinner and thinner, the soap wears away, And age hands us over to dust and decay.
Oh Bessie! dear Bess! as I dream of thee now, With the spice in thy breath, and the bloom on thy brow, To a cake of pure Lubin thy life I compare, So fragrant, so fragile, and so debonair!
But fortune was fickle, and labor was vain, And want overtook us, with grief in its train, Till, worn out by troubles, death came in the blast; But _thy_ kisses, like Lubin's, were sweet to the last!